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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117958">Stardust on Oil Canvases</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furuba_Fangirl/pseuds/Furuba_Fangirl'>Furuba_Fangirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cherubim, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Demon/Human Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Nude Modeling, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Strangers to Lovers, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:07:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furuba_Fangirl/pseuds/Furuba_Fangirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthony J. Crowley is a demon that is cursed to live on Earth until he finds his soulmate. Although he hasn’t had much luck in the last 6000 years so he has settled with living his best extended life instead; even if it’s sometimes in poor company.... </p><p>Atticus Zachariah Fell, or Aziraphale as he is known in the industry, is a professional art dealer and painter who, unfortunately, has been in a bit of a creative slump as of late. However, when he meets a stranger that reminds him of a seemingly timeless art model shrouded in mystery, inspiration comes to him in all forms. </p><p>Or The Ineffably Smutty Soulmate AU That No One Asked for But is Now Cursed With (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale (Good Omens) &amp; Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) &amp; Original Female Character(s), Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I swore I wasn’t going to make another GO long-fic but here we are now. Yet again I took an idea that was supposed to be a one-shot and said, "how can I make it more dramatic?" I have no one to blame but myself TT_TT </p><p>TW: While Crowley’s “relationship” with Lucifer is consensual it is based on years of manipulation/ possessive behavior and it is quite toxic so if that makes you uncomfortable please be careful while reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>It’s missing something</em>, a young angel thinks as they examine their handiwork against the dark void in the background. The concept of time was yet to be defined as a law of the universe but the star-maker does know they’ve been scrutinizing every detail for a while now. They had already tweaked its diameter and had even expanded the spectral mist crowning their creation until they were satisfied with the result. As they watch the golden flames flaring wildly in horseshoe loops around the molten surface, they acknowledge, quite proudly, it is the angel’s finest work yet. The proof of their effort lying in white robes stained with the remnants of vibrant, gaseous elements and hands coated in glimmering particles.</p><p>And, still, it feels unfinished…</p><p><em>It’s lonely,</em> a voice deep within them supplements.</p><p>That was it wasn’t it. A celestial body alone in the vast vacuum of space just doesn’t seem right. There are more stars to come and soon the angel’s work will be a small blip in the infinitely lit cosmos… But until that happens, perhaps there’s no harm in getting a head start. Technically, it would still be in the sector of their assigned constellation so it’s not like they would be stepping on anyone’s toes.</p><p>The idealistic angel rummages through their satchel, hoping there is enough material for a new project. At the bottom, their fingers graze a marble-like object and they carefully pluck it out. The angel admires the opalescent sphere pinched between their fingertips and with a sprinkle of residual dust its glow transforms to a soft, orange hue. They release the protostar from their hold and smile as it remains suspended, patiently waiting to be molded.</p><p>
  <em>Time to work…</em>
</p><p>However, the star-maker’s enthusiasm is replaced by a lurching sensation in the pit of their stomach as gravity violently jerks them downward. Through the fissures of whipping, fiery ringlets, the angel helplessly watches as their newest creation becomes a mere speck as if it too was a young star that barely got a chance to shine. Soon the only illumination left is the fire that engulfs their hurling body, burning their ivory plumage to charcoal as they descend further into the abyss…</p><p>Although, instead of landing in a pool of boiling sulfur it is a sea of red satin that breaks the demon’s fall when he crashes back into reality. As his blurry vision adjusts to the horizontal rays of sunshine flooding through the shades, Crowley winces at the throbbing pain in his head. He unceremoniously rolls onto his back with an annoyed grunt, throwing a forearm over his sensitive eyes. “Fuck,” he groans, realizing that he forgot to sober up before falling asleep.</p><p>Just what he needed to start off the day: a recurring nightmare and a hangover.</p><p>The demon massages his forehead as he dispels the remaining ethanol from his system, leaving only a bitter coating on his tongue. Once the grogginess and discomfort begin to wane, Crowley’s stare focuses on the ceiling… A ceiling that is suspiciously not level concrete but rather red brick with wooden rafters and therefore suspiciously <em>not</em> his.</p><p>
  <em>Right, I’m not at home.</em>
</p><p>He flips over to his side and notices the unkempt space beside him; the subtle indentation in the sheets and down feather pillow indicating someone else had slept there.</p><p>
  <em>Okay, also didn’t spend the night alone.</em>
</p><p>“Oh, glad to see you’re awake now. It would’ve been a shame if I had to wake you up just to kick you out,” says a teasing voice. </p><p>The demon turns his head slightly toward the source leaning against the doorframe of the walk-in closet.</p><p>
  <em>Definitely not with a stranger either.</em>
</p><p>At a glance, the presence could be mistaken as angelic; the sunlight bouncing off of flaxen locks and sculpted features. Although, the softened façade is betrayed by the flash of a toothy grin matching a wolf’s after a particularly satisfying feast.</p><p>The feast being Crowley, which he readily served with the ring of a bell as the emerging memories from the previous night suggest.</p><p>Lucifer stares at him with his arms folded in amusement as the demon sits up on the bed.  “G’ morning to you too,” Crowley grumbles, cracking the kinks out of his sore corporation.</p><p>“Afternoon, actually,” he corrects, adjusting the onyx cufflinks on his white sleeves. “Not that I’m judging or anything. I’m a fan of slothfulness as much as the next demon but at least now we’ll have some time for coffee.” The devil gives him a smirk. “You know before I actually kick you to the curb.”</p><p>“Such a gentleman,” he snorts.</p><p>Lucifer shoves his arms through his favorite pinstripe blazer. “You know I always am to you. I’ll even leave you the room so you can get dressed.” He gives Crowley a smug once-over before remarking, “Although, I wouldn’t mind if you decided not to of course.”</p><p>“Hmm, tempting but I’d like to leave here with some dignity,” Crowley retorts in a tone only he is allowed to get away with… most times.</p><p>This is one of those times. Lucifer chuckles, “Touché.” He turns on his heels, black oxfords clicking on the mahogany flooring as he heads toward the spiral staircase. “Meet me downstairs when you’re ready.”</p><p>Once he’s gone, Crowley begins the search for his clothing. After stepping into his jeans, the demon dismisses the stickiness between his thighs with a cringe before pulling them the rest of the way up; another mess he forgot to deal with. When he throws his wrinkled Henley over his head, Crowley feels a sharp sting on his back. As he examines himself through the reflection of the standing mirror, he notices purple fingerprints on his hips and matching hickies riddling his torso. Finally, he scans his left shoulder blade and finds an angry bite… right over his Mark.</p><p>He lets out a huff, irritated but not surprised because Lucifer is never shy about claiming him in the midst of a good fuck. A way to remind him that it is the devil himself that will always be Crowley’s one true constant in this world; soulmate be damned.</p><p>And after six thousand years, the demon has come to terms with that truth.</p><p>Crowley runs his finger over the sensitive area, careful not to touch the evenly spaced teeth marks circling the tattooed design. He traces the interconnecting dots and lines that form Centaurus, the pad of his index stopping just above the only prominent star in the tinted constellation… Alpha Centauri. The fond memories of its creation now tarnished by the constant recollection of his fall to the point the demon doubts that he ever even finished crafting the binary system… That it remained incomplete like him.</p><p>He sighs heavily, remembering he shouldn’t keep his host waiting. Crowley tugs his shirt down, not even attempting to miracle any of the marks away from his body since, like any creator, Lucifer tends to admire his art afterward.</p><p>Once he’s presentable, he makes his way down the metal steps to find Lucifer’s penthouse back to its normal state of cleanliness. A stark contrast from the teeming mess of boozy demons trying to give their master a final shindig before his departure to America. Although, if Crowley was to believe his flattery, Lucifer preferred their private after-party far better.</p><p>Crowley eventually comes across two clear mugs of espresso set on the granite countertop; a crystal vase with a single, red rose centered between them. <em>How romantic</em>, he thinks sarcastically. Past the breakfast bar, he notices Lucifer nestled in his conversation pit, talking on his cellphone with the posture of an old Bond villain. The demon pulls out one of the stools and takes a seat while he waits for him to finish up his call in the lounge, not touching his coffee until then.</p><p>“Alright, thank you for bumping up the reservation, Dagon. Bye.” After he hangs up, Lucifer gracefully lifts himself off the black leather sofa. He looks in Crowley’s direction and says, “I hate to admit it but I have to hand it to humans for coming up with first-class seats. I always wished it was one of our inventions what with the classism and all that jazz.” Crowley hums in agreement as the dark lord joins him. “Thanks for waiting for me, darling. Always, <em>so</em> well-mannered,” he praises, taking a pointed sip of his coffee before giving him a condescending smile.</p><p>“Well, y’ know me. I <em>live</em> to please,” Crowley responds with a mocking lilt, lifting his own miraculously steaming cup. Both of them aware of the piss-poor mood Lucifer would be in if he hadn’t. “So when’s your flight?” he asks, moving to casual conversation.</p><p>“In a couple hours. Why, you want to get rid of me so soon?” Lucifer jabs.</p><p>“Heh, course not.” As if saying anything else was acceptable. “Just wanted to plan out my dramatic exit.”</p><p>“Good answer,” he remarks.</p><p>They drink their beverages in silence before Crowley asks, “Oh, yeah, I was wondering. Have you seen my sunglasses by any chance? Didn’t find them upstairs.”</p><p>He digs into the inner pocket of his jacket and presents them to the demon. “Don’t worry I kept them safe.” Crowley makes to grab them but Lucifer swiftly places them on top of his own head. “Uh-uh, I want to hold on to them for a bit.” He swivels his seat to face him, steel eyes locking with slitted ones. Lucifer lifts a hand to grasp the side of Crowley’s face as he leans forward to whisper, “I don’t understand why you insist on covering your eyes with these silly things. You should be proud of them.”</p><p>Crowley’s mouth goes dry, realizing perhaps a little too late, that this conversation was heading toward a lecture. However, the demon maintains eye contact, trying not to shift uncomfortably under his piercing gaze. “M’ proud of them. Eh, I just y’ know can’t be bothered with all the questions I’d get from overly-sensitive humans,” he answers casually in the hopes it would veer the topic.</p><p>Lucifer tuts, “Oh, Crowley, you give them far too much consideration.”</p><p><em>Okay, not dropping it. Got it.</em> He might as well set his drink aside.</p><p>The devil nuzzles his nose along Crowley’s chin down the slender column of his throat as he tilts his head back for him. “That’s always been your biggest flaw.”</p><p>Crowley gasps sharply as lips graze his collarbone as they seek out the violet bloom hiding underneath the fabric. Sometimes, he is impressed by his own foresight.</p><p>“Don’t get me wrong, you’re a master of mischief but you still hold back,” Lucifer says while pressing wet kisses to whatever skin he can access. The rub of his stubble making the demon shudder. “You should live up to your fullest potential. There’s already so few of us, darling.” His other hand squeezes Crowley’s upper thigh. “So many demons have fallen for Her deluded idea of salvation and it’s only gotten worse in the last century, especially when they‘re farther from my radar. Even Ligur has been missing for over a year now,” he recalls bitterly, nipping Crowley’s neck as if he was the one who had left. “They’ve forgotten that I accept them as they are and that my love won’t cost them their immortality.” He steps down from his seat, crowding into Crowley until the demon opens his legs to make room for him.</p><p>Crowley clutches onto broad shoulders as Lucifer rolls his hips against him, biting his lip with a moan. “<em>Nnn</em>, demons being ungrateful. How shocking,” he jokes to lighten the moon. A dry chuckle tickles his ear.</p><p>“Not ungrateful, just… misguided.” He kisses his jaw, stroking his cheekbone with a knuckle. “Just like you once upon a time. When was it again? The eighteenth century, right?” Lucifer asks rhetorically.</p><p>Crowley’s bucking stills and his body goes rigid. He swallows thickly, feeling as if salt had been rubbed into a gaping wound.</p><p>Lucifer notices his change in attitude and croons, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.” An apology undermined by his hidden enjoyment whenever he throws the incident back into the demon’s face. “If it makes you feel better you know I don’t blame you for that indiscretion. I had taken my eyes off of you for far too long during that time.” His hand drifts from the side of Crowley’s face down to his shoulder. “The good thing is we both learned from our mistakes didn’t we?” His fingers outlining the mark he left as he waits for Crowley to answer.</p><p>The demon curtly nods his head. “Yeah… we did.”</p><p>He pulls away from the crook of his neck to place a chaste kiss on Crowley’s lip. “See, that’s why this trip is important. I’ve been neglecting my people and I need them to remember that I will always be here for them…”</p><p>Crowley knows this applies to him as well.</p><p>Lucifer promptly steps back to casually return to his seat, leaving the demon frustratingly wet and on edge as he catches his breath. “In the meantime, I just need everyone to be on their best behavior. Beelzebub and Hastur are in charge of holding down the fort here to keep business flowing. All you have to do is what you always do best: set an example,” he instructs with a glint of mischief in his eyes.</p><p>“Right, I’ll be sure to get on that.” He takes the last sip of his still-warm espresso before excusing himself. “Well, thanks for everything but I should probably get going.” As he starts to get up, Lucifer grips his wrist firmly causing him to freeze.</p><p>“Aren’t you forgetting something,” he asks frigidly. His stoic expression sending a chill through Crowley’s spine... Suddenly, he lets go and Crowley watches as Lucifer removes the shades from his head with an impish smirk plastered on his face. “Figured you wouldn’t want to leave them behind.”</p><p>Crowley lets go of the breath he was holding as Lucifer slips them over his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” he says, carding his fingers through auburn hair. He lets out an exaggeratedly dismal sigh. “Although I hate when we’re separated, maybe while I’m gone you can start growing your hair out again. I would love to have something to pull on when we celebrate my return,” he suggests with a wink.</p><p>“Er, yeah, I’ll think about it,” he answers politically, although, deep down he knows the request might not be debatable.</p><p>“Alright then,” accepting his answer for now. Lucifer politely pecks him on the cheek. “Take care, darling.”</p><p>Crowley takes that as his cue to officially leave. “Ciao,” he says as he makes his way to the elevator. Once the lift arrives, he gives a final wave to his host before stepping inside.</p><p>As the stainless steel door begins to close, Lucifer calls out, “Be good, Crowley.”</p><p>The demon clicks the button for the lobby and mumbles, “No problem…” In the confined space of the cab, Crowley winds down from the roller coaster that comes with getting dicked down by Satan. He mindlessly stares at the arrow of the elevator dial ticking down from <strong>XIII</strong> until it points to <strong>I</strong>. However, his moment of peace is interrupted as soon as the door opens and he is met with teal, disapproving eyes.</p><p>“Oh, good, I wazz hoping you’d be taking your walk of shame.”</p><p>“Awe, Beelz, you’re always so considerate,” Crowley jeers.</p><p>“Yes, well, I prefer to handle important matters with Him without… distractionzzz,” Beelzebub deadpans.</p><p>“Stop, you’re spoiling me with the compliments.”</p><p>They roll their eyes at him. “Since playtime is over, mind getting out of the way?”</p><p>Crowley steps out into the hallway, and signals for the prince to enter with a dramatic bow.</p><p>As they stride past him, they warn, “Don’t think because Satan’s leaving you can slack off. Dagon noted in last month’s report that Pairings in London have spiked which means the opposition is close by. So be sure to keep your eyes open.” Beelzebub scowls at him. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Him would you?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t <em>dream</em> of it,” he answers coolly. Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets as he saunters away. “I’ll keep you posted if I see any unusually good deeds.”</p><p>He pushes past the swinging doors and is bombarded with the chaos of the casino floor. The demon strolls across the tacky upholstery through rows of dinging slot machines and high-stakes poker tables. As usual, every spot is occupied with ranting and cheering gamblers no matter what time of day it is. A cacophony of human vices that is music to Lucifer’s ears. All the more reason he calls it home.</p><p>In the comfort of his Bentley, Crowley spots <em>Hell Raisers</em> reversed in the rearview mirror; the red neon letters continuously flashing despite the electric bill never being paid. He glances at the building a final time before revving the engine to start his hiatus until he’s crawling back in a few months for Lucifer’s return…</p><p>In the meantime, all he needs is his throne and a few episodes of <em>Golden Girls </em>on his big screen<em>.</em></p><p>Unfortunately, that would have to wait too because the moment he pulls up to his apartment building, he gets a distinct feeling that he’s being watched. When he steps out of the car, Crowley sniffs the air and recognizes the scent as what he would describe as peony mixed with concentrated, high-strung energy. “Oh, no, no, no. Not today,” he groans. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know the pattering from behind belongs to a pair of yellow Mary Janes.</p><p>“Hello, tempter,” a polite voice chirps.</p><p>The demon looks over his shoulder and sees a small woman, or in this case a woman-shaped being, holding a clipboard; her silver freckles sparkling on the apples of her cheeks.</p><p>“I need your help with something,” the angel says cheerfully.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, I’m excited for you guys to officially meet my OC next chapter and I hope y’all like her too &gt;_&lt;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anyone who would have come across this scene would’ve thought a sweet charity worker was politely asking for donations for an obscure third-world country. Crowley, however, is not fooled by the innocuous appearance of a freshly pressed, royal blue pencil skirt suit and a neat hair bun adorned with a silver hummingbird comb. “Absolutely not, Yanahel,” the demon promptly rebuffs as he starts to walk away from her. “M’ not in the mood.”</p>
<p>She quickly maneuvers in front of Crowley to stop him in his tracks. “Bu— You don’t even know what I was going to ask yet,” she reproaches with a pout.</p>
<p>“I know it’s obviously for one of your matchmaking schemes,” he challenges folding his arms. “Unless something has changed in the last thirty years I doubt it’s an invitation to the movies.”</p>
<p>“They’re not ‘schemes’,” Yanahel says defensively, mirroring his gesture. The angel hesitates before sheepishly admitting, “Although, you’re right. I do need help with a pairing.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s going to have to wait. I’ve had a rough morning and even rougher night,” Crowley says, stepping around her.</p>
<p>“Huh, I thought something reeked of lust and bad decisions but I wasn’t going to mention it if you didn’t,” she notes casually as she trails behind him.</p>
<p>“Oi, rude.” Although, admittedly it is more of an observation rather than an intentionally malicious jab on her part.</p>
<p>“Alright, sorry if I caught you at a bad time but this is important,” she assures, cutting in front of him again.</p>
<p>“You say that every time you cash in a favor as if somehow semantics will make me more enthusiastic about helping.”</p>
<p>She squints at him indignantly. “Perhaps I do hyperbolize sometimes but this of high priority. These soulmates are an absolutely fascinating case! You could say their families had a bit of an <em>explosive </em>past,” she titters.</p>
<p>“And I’m taking that’s not some sort of euphemism?”</p>
<p>“No, it was quite literal actually. His ancestor was a witch hunter and he had her ancestor burned at the stake. Unfortunately, for him she had hidden black powder and roofing nails in her petticoats and <em>pew</em>,” she imitates with a dramatic hand motion. “The first catalyst to a beautiful bond!”</p>
<p>He subtly rolls his eyes behind his shades. “Very romantic. I’m sure ol’ William would’ve loved to hear that story.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes, it’s a shame. He certainly would’ve been more enthusiastic about it than you,” she says huffily. “Anyway, this has taken me centuries of work to make this pairing possible so...” Yanahel turns her chin up as if that would make her appear more intimidating, “as a cherub of Heaven and servant to the Almighty, I order you, Serpent of Eden, to help me with this task.”</p>
<p>Crowley stares at her blankly.</p>
<p>“Pleaassee,” she adds with overt sweetness.</p>
<p>His expression softens a bit. “Oh, well, when you put it like that, course I’ll help.”</p>
<p>Yanahel beams happily at this. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Nope.” Crowley abruptly makes a sprint across the street leaving the stunned angel behind.</p>
<p>“Hey,” she shouts.</p>
<p>As he approaches his apartment building, the doorman greets him with a nod and an “Afternoon, Mr. Crowley.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, afternoon. Listen, whatever you do, don’t let that ball of sunshine through,” the demon instructs as he crosses the entrance pointing his thumb over his shoulder. Before the doorman can ask any more questions, Crowley is inside like a bat out of Hell.</p>
<p>As the doorman looks in both directions of the pavement, he sees no one of interest in sight so he simply shrugs thinking the tenant had been mistaken.</p>
<p>Crowley glances back to make sure he’s not being followed before stepping into the safety of his elevator and sighs with relief when the doors close.</p>
<p>However, he senses the air around him shift before Yanahel’s voice asks, “Did you honestly think that would work?”</p>
<p>The demon huffs as he turns his head to see her delicate eyebrows furrowed with irritation. “Ngk, not really. Just figured you’d appreciate the challenge.”</p>
<p>“Well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t mind if I do this.” The cherub snaps her fingers causing the elevator to come to a halt and the digital counter to go blank. Before he can protest, a dainty finger is being menacingly pointed at his face. “Need I remind you that you still owe me one hundred and twenty-seven soulmates?”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on do you really have to bring that up again?”</p>
<p>Yet Crowley already knew the answer was yes, yes she did because he was the one that broke their long-standing agreement… Even if in his defense it was involuntarily.</p>
<p>Now, it is no secret that angels and demons are the definition of hereditary enemies. Cherubim, specifically, represent everything demons despise. Even before the Fall, cherubs were the envy of all since they were the select few that had direct contact with the Almighty. However, one nibbled apple later, God entrusted Her cherubs with a new task: spreading love to Her creations on Earth. Not only to mankind but to demons as well, much to Lucifer’s disdain. So, from then on, demons were highly encouraged to interfere with that job as much as possible.</p>
<p>Crowley, for the most part, was the exception to this hostile sentiment. When it came to his demonic duties, ruffling a few angel feathers was not high on his priority list. Unfortunately, temptations tended not to discriminate and they just so happened to cross Earth’s (and perhaps Heaven’s) most tenacious cherub. At first, his antics were the occasional nuisance to Yanahel and general avoidance of him was usually enough to avoid problems. Although, the pair reached a proverbial stalemate when they both got permanently stationed in London. For every demonic mishap, there was an angelic intervention to dutifully counteract it which in turn created a bit of an administrative nightmare for both sides. It was around the fourteenth century when they were at the peak of their misery where they agreed that in order to effectively work against each other they had to reach a compromise. So they began coordinating to avoid overlaps and would alternate turns when tasks were of higher importance… Well, it was more like Yanahel would draw up a schedule while Crowley haphazardly signed off on it but, still, it worked for them.</p>
<p>That is until an ambitious demon with a bushy moustache underestimated the efficacy of one of his projects. Apparently, the creation of an unpredictable sigil of human frustration and motorway smog made punctuality a little screwy. Needless to say, Yanahel almost popped a metaphorical blood vessel when hundreds of her pairings got backlogged because of him. So for the sake of self-preservation against cherubic wrath, Crowley agreed to help her get back on track which was easier said than done sometimes.</p>
<p>“Now you listen here, Crowley! I have worked too long and too hard to have your laziness ruin this!” Before the demon can even get a word in she continues. “Do you know how many plagues and shipwrecks I had to help their ancestors avoid? How many investments I had to make sure they did or did not make? How many intricate details I had manipulate for this moment?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless–”</p>
<p>“A lot!” The fluorescent lights above glow brighter as she clenches her fists by her sides. “I was nearly discorporated fifteen times, one of which involved a very angry bear and her hungry cubs!”</p>
<p>The more she continues to rant, Crowley notices her halo is starting to shine through. “Uh, Yana, maybe you should calm—“</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Her irises start to turn a milky white and Crowley gulps, realizing that he’s sent her into one of her tantrums. “All I ask from you is to take a couple hours of your day to help me and you can’t be bothered because of a night of indulgence!”</p>
<p>Crowley’s hair starts to stand as electricity charges the air and he tries to diffuse the situation. “Okay! I get it, just tone it down—“</p>
<p>However, the angel is past hearing his concerns while she is in this state. “I’ve tried my best to be accommodating to you but that doesn’t seem to mean much to you, does it, you—you… meanie,” she growls, the echo of a jaguar roar underlying her voice.</p>
<p>Crowley is backed into the corner of the lift, shielding his eyes from Yanahel’s divinity. “Alright, alright! I’ll do it,” he yells. The light flooding the room slowly dims to normal and the demon dares to take a peek.</p>
<p>The cherub’s eyes blink rapidly as they return to their normal shade of indigo. “Do you mean it?” she asks dubiously.</p>
<p>“If it keeps you from detonating the entire building then yeah, obviously.” He pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose. “Your horns are showing by the way,” he informs.</p>
<p>Yanahel blushes as she notices the curve of ivory protruding out of her dark tresses. “O-oh, my bad,” she stammers apologetically as they recede away. “Seems I got a bit carried away there.”</p>
<p>“You think,” he huffs. “Alright, get on with it. What do you need me to do?”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes. At exactly 4:41, a young man’s car will ‘inconveniently’ breakdown a few blocks from Soho and I need you to give him a ride to an art gallery by 5:03. Oh, and when he’s done with his errand please help him fix his car afterward. It would be awfully rude to abandon him all willy-nilly.”</p>
<p>Crowley glares at her. “Is that it? You need me to chauffeur a star-crossed lover?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she confirms.</p>
<p>“And you couldn’t just call him a taxi because…?”</p>
<p>Her freckles glimmer with excitement at the chance to explain her brilliant thinking. “Well, you see, that was one of the first things I considered. However, I calculated that the average human, accounting for the traffic in London at that hour of the day, will take at least thirty to thirty-five minutes to get there. By then his soulmate would’ve already headed home for the evening and they would’ve missed their opportunity. But if the fastest and most irresponsible demon I know does it, everything falls into place perfectly!”</p>
<p>“I’m glad my skills could be of service,” he says cynically.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she chirps oblivious to his tone. “Here are the final details you need to know.” Yanahel reaches out and taps her index finger on his furrowed forehead and the information pops into the demon’s brain.</p>
<p>Crowley shakes his head to adjust to the intrusive thoughts. “Y’ know words are a thing too,” he reminds irately.</p>
<p>“You know my method is more precise.” Yanahel glances down at the platinum chronograph on her wrist. “Speaking of precision, I have to get ready for my next pairing.” She snaps her fingers again and the elevator whirs to life as it begins to descend again. “I recommend you get going in the next thirty-eight minutes if you want to make good timing.”</p>
<p>“How thoughtful,” he grumbles.</p>
<p>Her smile falters as she guiltily fiddles with her polka-dotted neck scarf. “Crowley, um, you know I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t trust that you could, right?”</p>
<p>He sighs and gives her a tiny, empathetic smile. While her relentlessness was often grating, Crowley couldn’t help but respect her dedication to her craftsmanship. “Yeah, I know, cupid.”</p>
<p>She faintly grins back at him before the doors open as she manifests her clipboard again. “Call me when you’re done, okay. Have to put it in my record.”</p>
<p>Crowley hums in approval as Yanahel flounces into the lobby with a skip in her step. Once he’s sure she’s gone, he presses the button to his floor hoping he can squeeze in the fastest power nap before getting to work.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>While I was researching Cherubim, I found out their true forms are fucking badass and I imagined each cherub would have varying sets of animals, if anyone would like to take a guess of what Yana’s are ;) Also, technically, cherubs are higher than Archangels but I gave Yanahel silver instead of gold freckles for the purpose of distinguishing her rank. </p>
<p>P.S. our softest boi will be making an appearance next chapter, no worries!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter took me so long to write, forgive me (TT_TT)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Now there are a few things that are notable about the art studio on the corner of the bustling street in Soho. For starters, the architecture and sun-bleached, burgundy paint suggest the building has been around since the Victorian Era; the only indication of modernism being <em>A.Z. Fell and Co.</em> written in golden letters above the entrance. Secondly, it is not uncommon for curious onlookers to mistake it for an antique shop. A notion supported by the shelves of dusty books and the vintage knick-knacks and furniture haphazardly scattered about. However, those who venture far enough toward the back may come across a stray easel surrounded by flattened tubes of paint and cups filled with muck, confirming the original purpose of the building. Lastly, despite its stark contrast with the outside world its eccentric owner, Aziraphale, gracefully fits into his antiquated surroundings. </p><p>People that have met Atticus Zachariah Fell would describe him as a man born in the wrong generation; an old soul that indulges in the simpler things in life. In all fairness, the artist would have to agree with their assessment of him. He liked the crackly sound of music through his gramophone, the feeling of aged parchment between his fingertips, and the weathering paint of the art in his collection. While he can obviously appreciate everything modern time offers, he always felt a stronger connection to the past… Almost as if a part of him was aimlessly searching for something that was lost in time.</p><p>Although, as of late, the only thing he’s been aiming to find is his creativity again.</p><p>In the comfort of his backroom, Aziraphale playfully hums along to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, his brushstrokes swiping the canvas in tune with the music. A ritual of his whenever he decides to start a new piece. However, he is so caught up in his work, the artist doesn’t even notice his new intern waiting to get his attention.</p><p>It’s only when the final chord progression finishes that he clears his throat. “Mr. Fell, sorry to distract you but I’m finished with today’s calls.”</p><p>“No worries, Newton,” Aziraphale reassures, setting the paintbrush aside. “Hope no one was too finicky today.”</p><p>“Thankfully not,” he chuckles. “Everything went without a hitch except Mrs. Wilhelm called to cancel tomorrow but I got her rescheduled for next week,” he retells, handing over his boss’s planner.</p><p>“Ah, thank you for letting me know,” he says as he starts to review it.</p><p>“So, I take it you’re project is coming along,” Newt comments glancing over at the canvas. Although, he soon realizes that despite his boss’s flurry of activity, it is stark white. “I see you’re going for a minimalist piece…”</p><p>Aziraphale amusedly laughs, “My dear fellow, I was simply priming it with gesso. I was hoping that picking up my brush would at least get my artistic ideas flowing but… it seems the well is a little dry.”</p><p>“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mr. Fell. People are always asking for you to take their commissions,” he says encouragingly. “Some more politely than others.”</p><p>He smiles at him gratefully. “Yes, well it is a bit easier creating other people’s ideas than executing your own but I appreciate your pep talk nonetheless.” The artist’s attention focuses on his grandfather clock and he hums in confusion. “That’s odd, the delivery company was supposed to be here by now. Did you get any calls about them being delayed?”</p><p>Newt shakes his head. “Maybe they sent an email?”</p><p>“Right, right.” Aziraphale gets up from his stool to settle in front of his computer.</p><p>After a moment of scouring, Newt observes his employer’s face of perturbation. “What is it, Sir?”</p><p>“There’s no confirmation number so it seems they didn’t receive our email in the first place.”</p><p>The intern gulps a little. “Uh, come again?”</p><p>“Oh dear, and there’s no sign of it in the outgoing folder either.”</p><p>Newt’s panic starts to rise and he goes over to see for himself. “No, no, no. I double-checked to make sure I sent it,” he assures.</p><p>Now Newton Pulsifer was not a stranger to technological mishaps considering they had cost him every job he had before Sergeant Shadwell put in a good word for him with the artist. However, he had thought that he had finally gotten the hang of it since Mr. Fell’s computer was a relic that even a caveman could use. Unbeknownst to him, he would actually have proficient skills in tech if it weren’t for his very precocious guardian angel sabotaging his endeavors for this precise moment.</p><p>“It’s alright, Newton. These things happen,” he says trying to be calm, although, the way he fidgets with his pinky ring betrays his demeanor. “I’ll just call Miss Device and tell her about the error. I’m sure she’ll understand.”</p><p>“But I thought she needed that piece by the end of business so she could have it ready for her presentation tomorrow,” he reminds worriedly.</p><p>His boss sighs, “I am aware of that but perhaps we can get the delivery company to come early before then.”</p><p>Aziraphale putters to the front of the store where the phone is but before he can even pick it up Newt blurts, “What if I take it to her?”</p><p>His employer turns to raise his eyebrows at him. “That’s very kind of you to offer but I can’t ask you to go through the trouble. It is a delicate piece that requires gentle handling.”</p><p>“It won’t be a problem,” he swears in an attempt to rectify his mistake. “I’ll drive as carefully as possible and if I go now I’ll make it in time before closing.”</p><p>“Hmm, I don’t know but… Miss Device has always been accommodating to me so it is only fair we extend the courtesy.” Ultimately, Aziraphale gives an approving nod. “I suppose we have to take matters into our own hands then, my dear fellow. We mustn’t dilly-dally then so I’ll help you get it into your vehicle.”</p><p>The pair get to work retrieving the glass frame currently wrapped in parchment and twine. They lug the piece across the studio careful not to knock it against anything until they’re safely outside.</p><p>Once they manage to adjust it in the back, Aziraphale breathlessly says, “Well, that was half the battle. Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Mr. Fell. I can handle it from here,” he exclaims with determination.</p><p>“Alright then.” He gives his intern a pat on the back. “Do be careful.”</p><p>“I will, Sir,” he says as he gets into the driver seat. “Everything will be fine!”</p><p>—</p><p>“Everything is not fine,” Newt bemoans as he desperately turns the ignition. “Come on, Dick, don’t do this to me now!” After a few more futile attempts, he lets his forehead thump against the steering wheel. “I’m so fired… again.” However, he only allows himself a moment of self-pity before deciding to hail a taxi that might accommodate a priceless art piece. Although his desperate flailing is stopped short by the sound of tires screeching and horns blaring. Suddenly, the source of the raucous comes barreling around the corner before nearly colliding into Dick Turpin as it comes to a halt. </p><p>The driver pokes his head out of the car to address the angry motorists behind him. “Oh, come off it! I gave you lot plenty of warnings to move!” Crowley pushes his fringe back with a huff and glares at his watch. “4:43. Eh, I’m sure she’ll forgive the discrepancy,” he mumbles to himself. He looks toward the side of the road to see a fidgety, spectacled young man gawking at him. <em>Seems about right</em>. “Oi, you,” he calls which causes him to jump.</p><p>“U-um, yes, Sir?”</p><p>“You look like you need a ride.”</p><p>Newt is relieved that the man wasn’t going to submit him to his road rage. “Uh, thank you, but I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll just catch a cab—“</p><p>“Listen,” Crowley interjects. “I can tell from your bug-eyes and the sheen of sweat on your forehead that you’re on a time crunch. Either you can risk waiting to see if someone picks you up or I can take you right now to wherever you need to be.”</p><p>“And what’ll it cost?” he asks suspiciously.</p><p>“Your soul,” he answers bluntly. The demon notices him go even paler and takes pity on him. “I’m kidding, it’s free of charge. Just consider this your lucky day.”</p><p>The intern stirs hesitantly as years of TV crime shows with similar premises resurface from his memories. Despite his better judgment, he accepts this might be his only chance of making it to the gallery. On the bright side, he thinks, if he does end up chopped up into little pieces at least he’ll have a legitimate reason for not showing up. “O-okay, I’ll go with you then.”</p><p>“Great, hop in,” Crowley instructs.</p><p>“Uh, but I have to take something with me as well, is that all right?”</p><p>“Sure, why not? S’ not like Yana would let me live it down if I didn’t,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Crowley waves dismissively. “Nothing, just hurry up, would ya?”</p><p>He nods his head obediently and scrambles to his car while Crowley watches on in partial amusement as the intern struggles pulling out the package like it is a bomb. He does, at least, do him the favor of opening up the back for him.</p><p>Newt finishes shoving it in with a grunt and goes around to join Crowley in the front. “Thanks,” he says buckling in. “You’re a lifesaver.”</p><p>“Can’t argue with that. Now let’s get going.”</p><p>“Right, um, it’s a gallery called <em>Descendants</em> and it’s on—“</p><p>Before he can finish, Crowley puts the Bentley into drive. “Yeah, yeah, know where it’s at. We’ll be there in no time.”</p><p>Newt’s stomach lurches as the demon veers into the street and he holds on for dear life. As they continue to zoom through traffic, he stammers, “M-mister, I know I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth but, uh, the package in the back is really important so could you slow down a bit?”</p><p>“No can do. We— I mean <em>you </em>wouldn’t want to be late.” Crowley glances down at the time again and sees it ticking closer to the deadline. “Trust me your package will be safe and sound.”</p><p><em>I’m not so sure about my own safety though, </em>Newt thinks frantically as the demon floors the gas.</p><p>After the first few swerves and near-collisions, the intern doesn’t even dare look at the road anymore. He only knows they’re close to their destination when his maniac of a driver announces this fact.</p><p>“Oh, thank God,” he sighs shakily, wiping some moisture from his brow.</p><p>“Yeah, something like that,” Crowley chuckles. Up ahead, he spots the turquoise awning that Yanahel had dumped into his head. <em>5:03 on the dot. Ha! Take that, cupid—</em></p><p>“Watch out!”</p><p>Crowley manages to stop but the thump and scream coming from the front bumper suggest he slammed something more than just the brakes.</p><p>“…You just hit someone,” Newt says in horror.</p><p>He rubs the back of his neck guiltily. “Er, technically, I had already braked so they hit me.”</p><p>The intern clambers out of the car to assess the damage and finds a woman strewn a couple feet from her bike. Newt rushes to her aid and exclaims, “Ma’am! Ma’am, are you okay...” As she lifts her head, he is met with umber eyes, ebony waves, and eyebrows furrowed in confusion.</p><p>“What the hell just happened?” she asks irately as she clutches her head.</p><p>Newt snaps out of his daze to stutter, “Uh, well, the thing is—“</p><p>“You should be more careful when you’re crossing the street,” Crowley chimes in, casually leaning against the driver seat door.</p><p>“No, no, that’s not— I am so sorry about this,” he apologizes.</p><p>As Newt helps their victim to her feet, demonic eyes capture a golden aura surrounding their joined hands. <em>Well, that’s certainly one way of making sure they met.</em></p><p>Meanwhile, the intern explains, “It’s just, I messed up a delivery order for my boss and I thought I’d make up for it by bringing it myself. Then my car broke down so I got a ride from the first person who offered even though I thought I might end up in a ditch somewhere. B-but I only did all of this because this is the longest I’ve held a job and I didn’t want to do anything to risk losing it. Which is still probably going to happen since I’m late anyway and the gallery is closed by now.” He controls his rambling for a moment to dismally sigh, “I know this isn’t an excuse for hurting you but I swear I’ll make it up to you in whatever way I can.”</p><p>The woman’s expression of annoyance gradually transforms into sympathy. “Well… I appreciate the apology even if you weren’t the one driving,” she says glaring at Crowley.</p><p>Newt makes a somewhat inconspicuous head gesture toward her and Crowley huffs, “Fine. I’m sorry that I nicked you.”</p><p>She scoffs, “Oh really, tell that to Phaeton…” She crouches down and Newt helps her haul up her bicycle that is in perfect condition. “I… thought I heard metal scraping.”</p><p>The demon smirks, “See no harm done.”</p><p>“For your sake, you’re lucky there wasn’t,” she warns before addressing Newt again. “So, you said you were here to deliver something to the gallery?” He nods his head to confirm. “Then that means you must be Mr. Fell’s new intern. He spoke about you the last time we talked.”</p><p>Pure mortification paints Newt’s face as it dons on him on who exactly she is. “You’re… you’re the curator: Miss Device.”</p><p>“Yes, but you can just call me Anathema,” she says, holding out her hand toward him.</p><p>His clammy hand shakes hers. “I’m, uh, Newton Pulsifer but everyone calls me Newt, except for Mr. Fell of course. Although, next time he says my name it will probably be preceded by ‘You’re fired’ once he hears I ran you over.”</p><p>Anathema smiles softly at him. “That is<em> if</em> he hears about it…”</p><p>Newt’s cheeks warm and a nervous laugh bubbles out of him. “‘If’ would be preferable.”</p><p>Crowley has to hold back an audible groan. <em>Satan’s sake put me out of my misery! </em>The demon dramatically clears his throat to get the soulmates’ attention. “Now that you’ve gotten acquainted, didn’t you have business to attend to?”</p><p>Newt recalls, “Yes, yes, your package! I have it in the back.”</p><p>The curator grins excitedly. “Thank you so much for bringing it. I tried to get a hold of the studio but my phone has been going haywire all afternoon so I was afraid I was going to have to postpone the art show.”</p><p>“Well, Mr. Fell and I weren’t going to let that happen.” <em>I just hope it’s still in one piece</em>. When he goes to check on it, he lets out a sigh of relief seeing that there’s not even a wrinkle in the parchment.</p><p>“Told you. Safe and sound,” Crowley boasts.</p><p>Before Newt attempts to pull it out by himself, Anathema sternly asks Crowley, “Aren’t you going to help him?”</p><p>He gives a little shrug. “I’m just the designated driver. ‘Sides he did fine on his own last time…” He trails off as she places a hand on her hip and glowers at him. “But, sure, why not? I have nothing better to do.”</p><p>“Good,” she hums as she goes to park her bike again so she can reopen the gallery for them.</p><p>Once they’ve shuffled inside, Anathema directs them to an inclined display table where they can finally set it down. “Oh, I can’t believe it,” she says giddily, adjusting her glasses. “My family has been looking for this piece for so long and it’s finally here! You see this was an heirloom of ours until my great-great-uncle Edmund Device lost it in a game of cribbage, of all things. So you can imagine how hard it was to track down after that! It really was a miracle that Mr. Fell found it for me.”</p><p><em>Oh, I don’t doubt that it was a miracle, </em>Crowley thinks recognizing the extent of Yanahel’s handiwork.</p><p>Meanwhile, Newt fondly smiles at her excitement but quickly hides it when she faces him again. “Would you like to have a look? I mean, after all you did to get it here you should get an early viewing of it… Unless you have to get going that is?”</p><p>He nervously glances over at his unamused driver. “I’m not sure if that’s—“</p><p>“Go ahead,” he says huffily. “I’ll just give myself a tour of the place until you two are finished.”</p><p>Crowley turns on his heels leaving the pair to admire Anathema’s artwork. After she peels back the final layer of paper, the curator lets out a gasp of delight. In the center of the glass case is a parchment yellowed with age. The faded ink depicts an old town plaza and a smiling woman, standing in a pyre.</p><p>“It’s really her… Agnes Nutter,” she says in awe.</p><p>“Who exactly is she and why does she look so happy to be burned at the stake?” Newt asks curiously</p><p>“She’s my ancestor and, well, she figured if she went down she was taking half the town with her,” Anathema explains with a mischievous grin.</p><p>“That would explain why this poor bugger looks like he’s in for the shock of his life,” he comments, pointing at the man wearing a flat-top hat. She giggles at this and Newt’s stomach feels all sorts of funny.</p><p>“Consider it instant karma since he was the one that sentenced Agnes. Actually, his name was Thou-Shall-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer… Kind of a weird coincidence that someone with the same last name would be the one to deliver this to me, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah, it…” He stares at her soft smile accompanying delicate features. “It was like it was meant to be…”</p><p>Anathema’s cheeks warm under the flattery of gentle, blue eyes. “Seems that way…”</p><p>“So… can you tell me more of the story?”</p><p>From his periphery, Crowley watches on as Anathema chatters away while Newt attentively listens like a pup. The shimmering of their auras together causes a knot to form in the pit of his stomach. He wishes he could say it is from revulsion but more than anything it is envy… longing even. For the most part, when Yanahel asks for help, he usually doesn’t have to interact with the happy couples and he prefers it that way. He prefers not having that dormant wantonness inside of him try to crawl out toward sunlight like a rotting vine in the shade of a thick canopy. He doesn’t want false hope again… Instead, the burning of the bite on his soul mark is enough of a reminder that things should remain as they are.</p><p>So, Crowley busies himself by exploring the gallery as he said he would. The straight edges and minimalist design remind him of his flat but the warm lighting bouncing off ecru walls certainly makes the building feel more welcoming. As for the art displays themselves, they follow similar themes of the occult and mysticism like woodprint tarot cards and paintings of fays and satyrs.</p><p>After judging the embellished renderings of some of his former colleagues, he stops in his tracks when he comes across a window to the past. Strokes of emerald and chartreuse form the soft grass that once tickled his feet and eventually his underbelly. Light dabs of rosy pink and buttercup yellow create the flowers that he could still smell to this day. Vivid colors all working together to evoke a nostalgic bliss in Crowley as he looks upon a depiction of Eden.</p><p>Underneath the framed work is a cardstock plaque that reads:</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Aziraphale</strong>
</p><p><em>Serpent in Paradise,</em> 2015</p><p>Oil on Canvas, 101.6 cm X 76.2 cm</p><p> </p><p>Intriguingly, the artist’s interpretation doesn’t focus on the temptation of Adam and Eve. Rather only their silhouettes are shown in the background as they share the Forbidden Fruit while at the forefront is the serpent leisurely coiled by the river. Its charcoal and copper scales detailed to appear as if they were glistening in the sunlight. It’s strange for the demon to see himself portrayed as an innocuous creature basking in the wonders of the garden instead of the devious being that doomed mankind (which he thought was a bit harsh considering it was the Almighty that booted them on the first offense). Still… it is an undeniably beautiful painting.</p><p>“Props to you, Aziraphale. You certainly got my best angle,” he chuckles lightly.</p><p>Crowley finishes surveying the gallery and returns to the front to find Newt by himself. “What, scared her off already have you?”</p><p>“Huh, n-no, she’s just bringing me something for my boss.”</p><p>“Or she’s sneaking out the back right now,” Crowley teases.</p><p>Newt’s sudden doubt is calmed once Anathema comes back with a parcel in hand. “Here we are. It got here early so this will be a nice surprise for Mr. Fell. I think it’s safe to say your job is secured for at least another day.”</p><p>“Thank you so much. Believe me, this day would have been a complete disaster if it weren’t for you.”</p><p>Crowley makes a subtle sound of indignation. “Yeah, sure, don’t mind the glorified taxi driver,” he grumbles.</p><p>“Right, sorry. You’ve been a big help too, sir.” He nervously taps the flat box in his hands not wanting to provoke an unwanted reaction. “There’s just one last favor that I need to ask? Would you mind giving me a ride back to my car so I could call a tow from there.”</p><p>“I’ll do you one better. By the time I take you back, your car will be there good as new,” he guarantees.</p><p>“Really,” Newt asks disbelievingly.</p><p>“Yep, called a guy to get it fixed up,” he fibs.</p><p>“Wow, and here I took you for a shmuck,” Anathema jabs, only slightly impressed by the gesture.</p><p>“Well, I had to do something while you two were making googly eyes at each other.” Crowley leers at them as the pair sputter a little at his insinuation. “So are we going or not?” he asks while walking toward the door.</p><p>“Yeah, yup, be right there,” Newt says, allowing the demon to exit first. “It was nice meeting you, Anathema, and feel free to call if you need anything else. The— the studio, I mean, not me, specifically,” he adds, flustered. “Although, I’ll probably pick up the phone so technically you would be calling me but it’d be for strictly business purposes I suppose.”</p><p>“Good to know,” she giggles. “Maybe I’ll catch you on your free time one day…”</p><p>Newt’s voice gets a pitch higher trying to suppress his joy. “That’d be nice too.”</p><p>“Then I’ll talk to you later, Newt,” Anathemas says with a timid smile.</p><p>They depart from each other with a wave and the intern goes outside to meet Crowley. Inside the Bentley, Newt slumps in the seat with a dopey smile, letting out a lovesick sigh. “That went wonderfully.”</p><p>Crowley judgmentally shakes his head. “Okay, lover boy, let’s get you back.”</p><p>—</p><p>They pull up behind Dick Turpin again without so much as a flinch or complaint from Newt throughout the whole trip. “Okay, my job here is done,” Crowley announces.</p><p>“Thanks again. You really did save the day, Mister… Actually, I didn’t catch your name during this whole time.”</p><p>“Anthony Crowley,” he responds curtly.</p><p>“Well, Mr. Crowley, I owe you… just not my soul.”</p><p>Crowley snorts, “Ah, so you do have a sense of humor when you’re not a twitching mess.”</p><p>Newt chuckles before opening the door. “Have a good night.”</p><p>The demon vaguely responds and watches as the intern gets into his car. Just as he said it would, the engine revs up with a puff of black exhaust smoke. Now that he’s officially ended his task, Crowley pulls from the curb and drives off.</p><p>“Call Yanahel,” Crowley commands.</p><p>After a couple of rings, the angel picks up with a cheery, “Hello.”</p><p>“It’s done. Your love birds have taken flight.”</p><p>Yanahel titters with excitement. “Oh, how wonderful! Tell me, was their meeting as magical as I suspected?”</p><p>“Er, you could say that she <em>really</em> fell for him.”</p><p>“Awe, that’s so… wait.” There’s a suspicious pause. “What did you <em>do</em>?”</p><p>“I got them to meet which is what really matters,” he defends. “Although, if you have issues with my methodology you can always find another demon to help you.”</p><p>“Nice try,” she tuts. “But I am willing to lower your debt to an even one hundred for this pairing.”</p><p>“It was that important to you, huh?”</p><p>“Very much so, yes. So thank you for your help. I know I can be a little persistent sometimes.”</p><p>“I would say ‘a pushy brat’ is more accurate.”</p><p>“Oh, shush, tempter,” Yanahel huffs. “I’ll be in contact when I need you again.”</p><p>“Hopefully, not too soon,” he mutters.</p><p>“What was that?”</p><p>“I said I look forward to it,” he says, coyingly sweet.</p><p>“Hmm, glad to hear it. Anyway, too-da-loo!”</p><p>“Too-da-loo,” he mocks after she hangs up.</p><p>While the demon finally drives home to finish up his day in front of the telly, somewhere in London town the cherub was left to cross her t’s and dot her i’s. On the digital screen of her clipboard, Yanahel scrolls through the list of soulmates until she comes upon “<strong><em>Pulsifer” </em></strong>and “<strong><em>Device</em></strong>”. The tip of her pen drags their names together and the symbol of an eight-point wheel appears until it disintegrates into pixels traveling back to Head Office. Yanahel smiles proudly at a job well done but since there is never rest for the good, she officially starts the clock on her biggest project as she jots down “<strong><em>In Progress</em></strong>” next to a complicated, wiggly sigil.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fun fact, Newt and Anathema's soul mark is based off the wheel of fate from Agnes's prophecy about them :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Brief depiction of a panic attack</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh dear, that was quite the misadventure you went on. I knew that I asked too much by having you go there by yourself,” Aziraphale expresses guiltily as he hands Newt a cup of tea. “It was awfully selfish of me.”</p><p>“No, it wasn’t, Mr. Fell. Besides, everything turned out fine and I got there in the nick of time… even if it was out of dumb luck,” he acknowledges, settling back into the settee.</p><p>“It was rather fortunate that that gentleman stopped to assist you or we would have been up the creek, as it were. However, it is a shame that I won’t be able to thank him properly for the kind gesture.”</p><p>Newt smiles at his boss’s politeness. “Hmm, he didn’t seem very interested in any compensation which I thought was weird but I got his name if you want to look him up.”</p><p>“Really?” he asks mid-sip.</p><p>“Mhm, he said it was Anthony Crowley. Well, assuming he was telling the truth anyway. He seemed like the less-you-know-about-me-the-better kind of guy.” He leans forward and whispers in a secretive tone, “I think he was mafia.”</p><p>“Oh, Newton, how many members of the mafia do you think go around randomly helping people?” he chuckles.</p><p>“I don’t know but he was a little suspicious. He didn’t take off his sunglasses even when we were indoors <em>and</em> I swear there was a bullet hole in the back window of his car.”</p><p>“Or you’ve been spending too much time with Sergeant Shadwell and there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of that,” he lightly points out.</p><p>“Okay, maybe you’re right but I’m just giving you a heads up if you decide to give him a call.”</p><p>“Well, I appreciate the concern. Anyway, the important thing in all of this hullabaloo is that no harm was done and Miss Device got her art piece,” he says, still oblivious to their vehicular mishap. “I know it was very important to her.”</p><p>“Yeah… she was so happy to see it.”</p><p>His boss catches his doe-eyed expression and smiles amusedly. “I assume her happiness wasn’t the only thing you noticed about her?”</p><p>Newt blushes slightly but doesn’t deny it. “Uh-huh, she was… amazing. Not at all what I was expecting either.”</p><p>“What exactly were you expecting, dear fellow?”</p><p>He shrugs a little. “I was thinking more along the lines of a grey beehive and a leopard print skirt.”</p><p>“Ah, yes, she is much younger than most curators but I assure you she is more knowledgeable than most that are years her senior.”</p><p>Newt nods in agreement. “Oh, speaking of that, Anathema gave me a package for you! She wanted you to have it early as a thank you,” Newt informs as he sets his cup aside. “I left it at the front desk, lemme go get it real quick.”</p><p>Aziraphale waits in anticipation until Newt comes back and hands it over. “Marvelous, I was expecting this until next week!” He hastily shoves away some of the clutter of his work desk to place the brown package on it. Aziraphale pulls out his letter opener, slicing through the tape and opening each flap with delicate care. A wide grin spreads across his lips as he plucks out the framed work, which according to the certificate of authenticity is called <em>Black Silk and Brimstone Eyes </em>by Melina Rivera.</p><p>“Come have a looksee, Newton,” Aziraphale motions. The artist grabs a magnifying glass to show him each detail of the lithograph: an Art Nouveau woman wearing a black negligée, one strap slumping off her shoulder, lips stained the same color as the carnations adorning her long, waves of auburn. “Now this is an art motif that I first encountered when I was in university. Individuals depicted with red hair… sharp cheekbones… an aquiline nose,” he says, hovering the convex lens over each part he specifies. “But the most important feature are the eyes.” Although the muse’s eyes are half-lidded, enough of her golden irises shine through. “They’re usually partially closed like they are here or obscured by a mask or dark glasses but you can always manage to catch a glimpse of them. It’s almost as if all these artists through different cultures and eras of time agreed that these characteristics put together made beauty incarnate…”</p><p>Aziraphale snaps out of his fascination with a chuckle. “Sorry, listen to me, blathering on. I’m just thrilled to have such a unique artifact in my possession.”</p><p>“It is pretty weird. It kind of reminds me of…” Newt starts but shakes his head. “Never mind, I think I’ve just had a long day is all,” he laughs tiredly.</p><p>“Yes, I can imagine you must be completely exhausted. Why don’t you get going and take the day off tomorrow so you can have a long weekend? I’ll be sure to pay you for your time,” he offers kindly.</p><p>“Thanks, Mr. Fell. I appreciate it,” he yawns.</p><p>Aziraphale walks the intern out the door, bidding him adieu. Once he’s alone, the artist goes back to fawn over the newest addition to his collection and begins the task of finding the perfect place to hang it.</p><p>***</p><p>There is a flash in the distance followed by a resounding <em>crack</em> as grey clouds roll closer. The sparse droplets that had quietly pattered on white stone become more rhythmic as the deluge grows heavier. Despite that, a demon watches on, the red glow of a stolen Heavenly weapon becoming smaller in the distance. Crawly shudders at the wind blowing against his clammy robes as he wraps his arms around himself. Discomfort aside, he can’t bring himself to leave the Eastern wall of Eden just yet; confusion weighing on him greater than the rain that had dissolved his curls. It isn’t necessarily guilt he feels for what happened to the humans rather… uncertainty. The demon can’t understand <em>what </em>is so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil or <em>why</em> the Almighty would put that knowledge within arms’ reach of her favorite creations. It is all so convoluted and Crawly is left alone with these questions. He is sure that not even Lucifer or any of his fellow cohorts would care for the answers; the only thing that mattered to them was him causing trouble for the humans… If what he did could even be considered that, he isn’t sure of that either.</p><p>Lost in thought, the demon feels a sudden, unfamiliar shift in the air. The pitter-patter of water sounds more concentrated above his head but there’s no moisture falling on him anymore. Crawly looks up to see an expanse of white feathers above him, shielding him from the storm. He turns his head toward the source only to find a glowing silhouette, no distinct features or boundaries just… warmth and kindness.</p><p>Before Crawly can ask who or what it is, a distorted, hymn-like voice emanates from its direction. “<em>It’s alright… I’m here now…”</em></p><p>Crowley jolts awake, breath heavy as he tries to get his bearings until he realizes that he is in his own apartment and bed this time. However, he is struck by the immediate displeasure of his silk pajamas soaked through with cold sweat. The demon groans as he pushes back his damp fringe to then unbutton his shirt and tosses the soiled garment aside. Crowley flops back onto his cool sheets, his breathing finally easing to its normal pattern yet something deep within him still burns with restlessness. Although as he runs through the dream in his head, he doesn’t understand why he was so frightened by it. Or perhaps it wasn’t fear that he was feeling but <em>hurt</em>. No matter how much his mind wanted to twist the memory of that day he was alone… and still is.</p><p>He sits up again, deciding that he’s had enough sleep for at least a few weeks.</p><p>So the next hours consist of Crowley mindlessly reorganizing his records and sweeping dust that isn’t even there. His house plants, however, get the brunt of the demon’s frustration. His moth orchid had been late to bloom this year so as a point of encouragement he makes an example of a frumpy spider plant. Needless to say, a few buds sprouted at the sound of the garbage disposal whirring viciously.</p><p>Still, terrorizing vegetation and unnecessarily tidying his place aren’t enough to reel in his agitation. The prickling underneath his skin making him want to crawl out of it like the snake that he is. Ultimately, he comes to the decision to channel his nervous energy into something productive.</p><p>He grabs his blazer and slings it over a shoulder while he types out a quick text with his free hand.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <strong>I’m heading to St. James for some quick temptations. Better not be a problem</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>In the hallway, he gets a notification, the icon reading:<strong> Yana 😇</strong></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>Very well but you know I would have appreciated a 24 hr notice 😑</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Demon, remember?</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>How could I forget? Still, that’s no excuse for improper etiquette</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Crowley rolls his eyes wishing that after five thousand years the cherub would have lightened up a little bit. Fortunately, that’s an issue to deal with another day.</p><p>–</p><p>The demon is slouched on a bench with his arms crossed, watching on in amusement as a jogger stops by to unsuccessfully pick up the silver pound on the path. He chuckles as the man leaves in a huff to continue his run, however, Crowley’s expression softens when he sees his next victim is a little boy letting go of his mother’s hand to skip toward the shiny treasure. Luckily for him, the coin lifts off the ground with no problem and he presents it to his mom excitedly. As she picks her son up with a kiss and takes him to the ice cream vendor to pick out a treat, Crowley gets a pang of melancholy in his chest. A feeling he tries to rectify by making a street juggler drop his pins with a clatter.</p><p>Off to his side, the demon hears someone in a hushed voice say, “You’re not supposed to pick the flowers here.”</p><p>“Lighten up, babe, they won’t notice one measly flower is missing,” another person chuckles.</p><p>Crowley turns to see two young women near a planter, one looking around with a paranoid expression while the other is crouching down to choose the best one. “Tourists,” he scoffs.</p><p>“Aha, this one,” the blonde says plucking an orange tulip. She presents it to her girlfriend who gives her a pout. “Come on,” she encourages, “I’ve already become a hardened criminal for you, might as well take it.”</p><p>Her frown turns into a weary smile. “Fine but only because you sacrificed your moral compass for me,” she giggles as her partner tucks it into her russet bob. They nudge their foreheads together, pulling each other closer and Crowley’s heart wrenches violently.</p><p>
  <em>“For you, my doll.” A broad hand gifting a red rose to the demon. “It reminded me of you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Crowley snorts, “What, enticingly beautiful?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t forget unbearably prickly.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ha, ha. But let’s not forget you were the one stubborn enough to pick me,” she reminds bopping the flower on his nose.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He pulls her in by the waist, nuzzling her forehead and giving her a pearly grin. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat…”</em>
</p><p>Crowley bolts out of his seat, his body going into autopilot to take him anywhere but there. It’s only when he’s safely inside the Bentley that his emotions crash over him like an anvil and he starts to tremble uncontrollably, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t think. Don’t think about anything. Don’t think, don’t think. Don’t. Think.</em>
</p><p>He continues his mantra as a way to ground himself until, eventually, he’s numb to the dread that overtook him. The demon sniffs dryly as he lifts his head from the steering wheel, staring blankly out the windshield, wondering where he can go from here… If there was somewhere that didn’t remind him of the past.</p><p>Crowley sighs heavily and decides that perhaps bunkering down at his flat was the best of the worst options. At least there, he didn’t have to look at everyone’s stupid smiling faces.</p><p>—</p><p>Back at his place, Crowley hangs up his jacket over his throne before slumping into it and kicking his feet up onto the desk. His head tilts back as he gazes up at the high-rise ceiling. “I bet you think it’s real funny seeing me like this… wondering what my place is in this world you dropped me in,” he mutters to Someone that may or may not be listening. “You probably think it’s a just penance for asking questions or… maybe you really don’t care either way… I honestly don’t know which is worse.”</p><p>The other demons might think him pathetic for reaching out to the Almighty but he’d always been the persistent type. Even if he never gets an answer at least he is able to vent openly.</p><p>He huffs, yielding to the silence; his hand itching to reach into his pocket and call the one being that might be willing to entertain him (even though it will come off incredibly clingy after only a few days). Yet, before he gets the chance, he is startled by his home phone ringing. Thankfully, the demon knows that Lucifer never calls him here, or else he would’ve thought he suddenly became a mind reader. Crowley relaxes back into his seat and lets the answering machine get it.</p><p><em>“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”</em> <em>Beep.</em></p><p>“O-oh, um, I’ll try my best,” the caller stammers in response which makes Crowley laugh a bit. He then clears his throat and says, “Hello, my name is Atticus Fell. We haven’t been acquainted yet but I do believe you met my intern, Newton Pulsifer, the other day and he told me you helped him. So, I decided to search for you in the phonebook, and, fortunately for me, you are the only Anthony J. Crowley in London.”</p><p><em>Who the hell still uses phonebooks, </em>the demon wonders curiously.</p><p>“Anyway, I called to personally thank you for what you did. I’m sure you weren’t aiming for a reward but I would still like to extend an invitation to brunch as a gesture of my gratitude…”</p><p>Crowley arches an eyebrow in confusion.</p><p>“I’m aware this might be strange and I’ll take no offense if you’re not interested. However, if you’d like to accept please call me back at this number so we can hash out the details. If not, I do hope this is enough…” he says with sincerity. “Have a good evening, Mr. Crowley.”</p><p>The call ends and Crowley is left slightly moved by the offer. How is it that someone is grateful enough to invite a complete stranger out? It’s a bit naïve, really…. Then again by the way he speaks, he’s probably a sweet, older gentleman that wants to give his companionship. Nothing wrong about that.</p><p>After a moment of contemplation, Crowley waits a few minutes before dialing back so he doesn’t come off as needy (because, obviously, he’s not, nope, not in the slightest).</p><p>“Hello,” that familiar chipper voice answers. “This is A.Z. Fell and Co. How may I help you?”</p><p>“Yeah, hi, this is the good Samaritan. I presume this is Mr. Fell,” Crowley says.</p><p>“Yes, this is he! What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear back from you so soon but never mind that. How are you doing?”</p><p><em>Shit</em>. “Er, m’ good— busy. Real busy me. I just got in now after a <em>very</em> long day.”</p><p>“Oh, I hope I’m not imposing too much then,” Aziraphale says worriedly.</p><p>“No, you’re good. I heard your message and thought I’d give you a ring seeing as you went to the trouble of finding me.”</p><p>“Well, I figured it was the least I could do after your kindness. Although, as I said before, I would still like to repay you but you’re under no pressure to say yes.”</p><p> “Yeah, about that. I’ve given it some thought and…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I don’t see why not? Just give me a time and day that works for you and I’ll be there.”</p><p>“Lovely to hear! Absolutely tickety-boo! How about…,” he ponders for a second, “next Sunday at eleven? There’s this lovely little café that has the most divine pastries.”</p><p>Crowley smiles faintly at his excitement. “Sounds good to me.” He jots down the address on a sticky note as Aziraphale dictates it. “Alright, see you then and, um, thanks for the invite.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, Mr. Crowley. Goodnight.”</p><p>“Night…” He hangs up the phone and leans back on his chair. The demon isn’t sure if he’ll regret this later but oddly enough… it doesn’t feel like he will.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's a Broadchurch reference in here somewhere if anyone noticed XD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Guess who's back? Back again! Ruby's back, tell a friend :D Sorry for the delay in this story but I've been working on some other GO projects (including a piece for an upcoming zine 😎) so IDK when the next update will be 😞. Until then, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale chipperly whistles to himself as he makes his way to the pale brick building across the street. The aroma of petunias and lavender nestled in the window boxes welcoming him before he enters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside the small, rustic cafe one of the waitresses greets, “Hi, Mr. Fell! Good to see you around the block!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Hetta! I know it has been a few weeks but I’m meeting a guest here and couldn’t think of a better place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, how exciting! Someone special?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, nothing like that, dear girl,” he giggles. “It’s a meal of appreciation, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods her head as she leads him to his favorite table, setting up the menus and silverware before she goes back to attending some of her other customers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Aziraphale waits, he fastidiously picks at a piece of lint from his sweater vest. It is a bit odd, feeling as if he has to impress a stranger. However, this is probably the most social outing he’s had in months. He has his patrons to talk to and he frequents art shows but after a while, it becomes banal so it’s nice to have a break from his routine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Newt had expressed slight concern about his employer actually meeting their rescuer. It’s not that the intern thought Crowley didn’t at least deserve a well-written thank-you note, he just couldn’t see two people so dissimilar enjoying each other’s company. Despite this, Aziraphale is optimistic. Perhaps he will be a little rough around the edges but deep down he probably is a nice person!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the meantime, the artist skims over the menu so he doesn’t dither in front of his guest when he arrives. As he settles on something savory, he notices a flash of black and red through the corner of his eye. When he looks out the window he spots a lanky figure walking with the swagger of an old-school rock star. The person disappears from his sight until Aziraphale hears the soft jingle of the door opening and he silently gasps. At the entrance is someone he’s never met before but a face he’s practically memorized. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fiery red hair, sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The man turns in Aziraphale’s direction and the artist ducks his head not wanting to seem rude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, how can I help you?” Hetta asks Crowley, who’s looking around the small dining area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. M’ supposed to be meeting someone, if you can point me in the right direction, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! You must be looking for Mr. Fell. His table is over there,” she signals. “I’ll be with you two in a minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley thanks her before he heads toward the corner of the restaurant where he sees white, fluffy hair poking out from behind a menu. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yep, as I suspected: kind older gentleman</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks in amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale hears footsteps approaching him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, good Lord, he’s coming over here! What could someone as handsome as him want with—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, hi, you must be Atticus Fell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh…</span>
  </em>
  <span> Aziraphale takes a deep breath before lowering his shield to face his guest. “Yes, that’s me,” he says with a polite smile. “And you must be Mr. Anthony Crowley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Crowley studies the man in front of him, he is taken aback at his appearance. Aside from his dated wardrobe and bifocals, he’s not exactly what he expected. For starters, he is younger than he imagined. He’s got a few crow’s feet and worry lines on his forehead but he can’t be more than forty. More importantly, he’s fascinated by his eyes; pale blue and radiating a warm kindness. Not cold and unyielding... The demon clears his throat and holds out his hand.  “Uh, yeah, but you can just call me Crowley or even Anthony if y’ want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes it. “Alright, Anthony. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Officially that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Likewise,” Crowley says, settling down across from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure this must be unorthodox for you, having someone call out of the blue. Still, I’m glad you could make it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, it’s a little unconventional but it’s not unappreciated,” he reassures with a faint smile. “‘Sides, I needed to get out of the house anyway. Er, I mean after all the work I have to do, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his relief, Hetta comes by in time to prevent him from putting his foot farther down his mouth. “So, what can I get you guys started with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale chimes in first. “I’ll have a mimosa and some potato latkes with poached eggs, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’ll have a coffee, black, and what he’s having.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, are you sure? You can take your time with the menu,” the artist insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’ fine. I’m sure you know what’s good here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale concedes with a nod. “In that case, Hetta, can you get us an assortment of petit fours, as well. They’re absolutely divine!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their waitress happily scribbles down their orders, promising to return as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that they’re alone, Aziraphale continues their conversation by asking, “So, Anthony, aside from spontaneously performing good deeds, what do you do for a living?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley snorts at the irony. “Trust me, that was a one-off event. I happened to be in the area and, well, your guy looked like he needed a life raft. As for what I do… I mostly do odd jobs around the area.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I see…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Better not mention that cryptic answer to Newton.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Great, I probably sound like an outright bum… Wait, why should I even care?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Regardless, the demon steers away from the subject. “What about you? I assume you work in the art scene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. I am an art dealer by trade but I sometimes sell my own creations on the side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The demon quirks an eyebrow in intrigue. “S’ that so? What kind of medium do you work with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The artist’s posture perks up. “Oil mainly, although I do indulge in using charcoal and watercolors occasionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, and what style do you prefer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Realism,” he answers excitedly. “Landscapes, still art, and portraits are what I’m most passionate about. However, if I am feeling bold, I do like creating works with more theological themes like Greco-Roman mythology or Old Testament parables. Actually, that’s how I met Miss Device, the young woman you helped deliver to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, she rings a bell...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, after she was kind enough to feature one of my paintings related to the Fall of Man, I decided to help track down her family’s art.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s stomach does a little flip as he connects the dots. “Hold on, are you Aziraphale?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde’s eyebrows shoot up and he feels slightly flustered at the recognition. “Why, yes, that’s what I like to go by in more professional settings. A decision I made early in my career thinking it’d make me sound more memorable like Banksy,” he explains albeit bashfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say it was effective then. I saw your painting while I was in the gallery. It was really… great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his lack-luster vocabulary, Aziraphale recognizes his sincerity and smiles gratefully. “Thank you. It was a piece I was particularly proud of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of an interesting take on the First Temptation. Most people tend to go for the whole wily serpent tempting the damsel in distress while simultaneously spitting venom from its fangs depiction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that,” he chuckles. “I always found that interpretation a little black-and-white. There's a different perspective in every story and I decided to explore the serpent’s side. I wondered if Man’s temptation wasn’t some sort of personal vendetta but rather… a way to have its own moment of peace in the Garden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s lips turn up. Someone giving the original tempter the benefit of the doubt. Humans would never stop surprising him. “That is a fair interpretation but I have an alternative theory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he was bored and had nothing better to do than to cause some trouble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An amused laugh bubbles out of Aziraphale. “That’s definitely an innovative view. I know a few theological scholars that would have a field day with that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ohh, I’d be up for the challenge of debating with them,” he says slyly. “Wait ‘til I tell them my theory on dinosaurs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hetta returns with their beverages and food, throwing an encouraging wink to Aziraphale as she leaves them be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With their table set, Aziraphale’s mind captures the scene before him. Between their matching plates is a tiered pastry stand filled with jammy shortbread biscuits, colorful macarons, and square cakes covered in fondant icing and a tiny, edible flower. The light from the window hitting Crowley perfectly to accentuate his features as he brings the porcelain cup to his lips... It is quite a lovely image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s concealed gaze meets his and the artist stutters, “S-sorry, dear boy. I didn’t realize I was staring. I just… This might sound strange but it feels like we have met before.” Yet, he distinctly leaves out the part where he reminds him of his favorite art muse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The demon can’t place his finger on it but, for some reason, he feels the same way. Instead of voicing this sensation, he shrugs, “Don’t see how? I’m sure I would’ve remembered someone like you.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is that too forward? ...Nah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I'm certainly more old-fashioned than most people.”</span>
</p><p><em><span>See, took it as a platonic observation.</span></em><span> Unfortunately, since he has no filter, Crowley adds,</span> <span>“S’ not a bad thing though. Makes you unique.” ...</span><em><span>Shit</span></em><span>. But, he can’t feel too guilty about it when he notices the light blush on Aziraphale’s smiling cheeks.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Anthony. You are too kind...” He quickly regains his composure and picks up his cutlery. “Now, we shouldn’t let this get cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With their plates cleared (or mostly cleared in Crowley’s case), they exchange pleasantries about their favorite art movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying minimalism gets a bad rep. I mean, yeah, I’m not into cubes and circles on a white canvas but I can appreciate it when it’s used in architecture. Big fan of straight lines and blank walls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I agree it’s very pleasing to the eye. I personally just can’t imagine myself feeling like I’m in an empty room. I hope this doesn’t make me sound uncouth but I rather like a bit of clutter. Makes everything more lively like every part is filled with different memories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As long as you don’t end up on those awfully morbid shows on the telly, I say there’s nothing wrong with that,” Crowley chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs as well but then hesitates in contemplation. “Well… If you don’t terribly mind messiness, maybe you’d like to stop by my art studio one day. Obviously, you don’t have to,” he specifies hurriedly. “You’ve entertained me enough with your company already but if you’d be interested, I can show you a few pieces of my collection. I quite like hearing your opinions...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a tickle in the base of Crowley’s stomach and he gulps slightly. If there’s something that he craves desperately right now is being heard… “Alright. I could do with some cultural refinement,” he says casually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The artist happily titters, “Excellent. I’m pretty much free this Wednesday if that works for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley gives him a lopsided grin. “Sounds like a plan, Aziraphale.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was debating putting imaginary fireworks above their heads but I decided to go for a more nuanced approach XD</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments, questions, kudos and transformative works are always welcome :3</p><p>-Ruby ❣️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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